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The Demigod Games - Chapter 1
The Reaping The crowd floods down the narrow streets, into the square, the same way a river always meets its banks, willingly or not. Bright, glittering banners are hanging down the buildings, a riot of colors. Bold yellow, lavender, sea blue, silver. But today, grimness filled the city, so much of it, you can just feel it in the air. Despite these vibrant colors that add to the normally dusty roads, the emotions of the people swirled in unseen currents beneath their dark expressions. Of course, it’s not complicated to figure out what the crowd is thinking. It’s Reaping Day, after all. The square is fairly sizable, but hardly enough to fit the District 8’s population of approximately five thousand. I join the line-up and waits patiently for my turn at the sign-in sheet. Like me, those between the ages of twelve to sixteen file into the areas marked with fat blocks of thick velvet rope, squeezing into wherever space they can cram themselves into. It isn’t hard. The district’s people are practically skin and bones. I survey the crowd around me, the families huddled together in rags, looks of desperation plastered on their dirty, smudged faces. It wasn’t always like this. Maybe I should back up and explain. Gaea won the Second Gigantomachy, because some demigod gave in to Gaea’s offers in the middle of their quest. As a result, most of Hera’s essence was sucked up to raise the Gigante Porphyrion, which lead to the downfall of Olympus. Gaea upheld her end of the bargain for quite some time, and let demigods and mortals live in peace. But then… The clock strikes eight, cutting off my train of thoughts. Everyone look up somberly. Mayor Willoughby steps onto the stage clears her throat, and begins. The crowd hushes, not that anyone was talking. “Welcome, the citizens of District 8, the District of Artemis, to the forty-ninth annual Demigod Games,” she begins, and looks down at the crowd, the same way a teacher looks at a misbehaving class. She then proceeds to read the story. It never changes, and it describes the tale of the New World, conveniently skipping over the part where Gaea went nuclear on the districts. My mind wanders again, but tunes in somewhere around the uprising led by District 13. “—Twelve of the districts are defeated, eight of them were depopulated, and one of them was obliterated,” the mayor intones. Depopulated, meaning ‘massacred, then left nature to take its course.’ Obliterated. A word that’s synonyms to ‘too powerful to be allowed to exist.’ Of course, I don’t say it out loud. Doing so would mean treason. I cannot afford that, because of mother’s last instructions to me. “The districts and the Kingdom then worked together to create new laws to maintain peace, and as a reminder, it gave us the Demigod Games,” she continues, looking at the crowd, deadly serious. I scowl, then quickly smooth my expression. Worked together? More likely threatened. But I leave that behind. The entire procedure of the Games are straightforward, uncomplicated, yet they bring much more sadness than anything else. In retribution for the uprising, the districts must each hand over a boy and a girl between the ages of twelve to sixteen every year, called tributes to take part. Then, the tributes are thrown into an outdoor arena, and in a period of a few weeks, the tributes must fight to the death. The last one standing is crowned the winner and gets to have eternal glory. “The previous victors of District 8,” Mayor Willoughby says, her face indifferent, “are Inanna Anthonyson, Javari Boyce, and Azaleah Wood.” The mayor glances to her right, where Azaleah sits. A woman in her thirties, she won the Games decades ago, and hardly ever makes an appearance in the town. Her hair is pulled tightly into a ponytail, her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes alert. She’s not the kind of person you’d want to mess with. Then, Mayor Willoughby looks to the left, and introduces Serephone, the escort. Cheery and vivacious, the empousa bounces up to the stage, and gives her trademark, “Haaaaappy Deeeeemigod Gaaaaames, and may the gods be EVER in your faaaaavor!” She stands on the tip of her toes excitedly and expands her wings. The mayor ducks as he tries to avoid getting smacked in the head by Serephone’s large, bloodred wings. She accidentally steps on Serephone’s gown, crashes into Azaleah, and both of them tumble down the stage. Serephone glares at them. The Reapings are aired live, and she knows it. To save herself from further embarrassment, she brings the cameras back onto the stage by crossing to the two clear glass balls containing thousands of paper slips between them. I stare at the orbs like everyone else. In one of them, twenty-four of those slips have my name, Kayleena Langley, scrawled on them. “Laaaaadies Fiiiiirst,” she announces in her drawling voice, which is ironic, since no one, and I mean no one here is male. Ever. That’s why District 8’s population is one of the least amongst the districts. But a handful of people selects District 8 each year at the Choosing Ceremony, because the conditions here are apparently better than in some other districts. The Initiation is fairly easy to pass too, so I guess that compensates for it. Serephone swishes her hand above the first glass ball. The audience draws a collective breath as she reaches a perfectly manicured hand into the globe. The crowd is perfectly silent, there is no whispering or rustling. She draws out a sheet of paper and pulls it out. My blood runs cold as she carefully, carefully open the slip of paper with the tips of her pink fingernails “Moooonday Moooorris,” Serephone announces in her drawing voice. The screens project a fifteen-year-old from the wealthier part of District 8. Chocolate-colored hair, with olive toned skin and green eyes, she looks like she belongs in an armchair, reading books. Her face is as white as chalk. Tears are welling up in her eyes, and she looks absolutely horrified. The kids around her give her a wide arc. She takes a shaky step towards the stage. Another. Her pace slows as she reaches Serephone, who reaches a hand towards Monday and helps her up. Once Serephone made sure Monday isn’t in danger of plummeting down the stage, she flies over to the second glass ball, and snatches up a slip of paper and reads without deliberation. “Kayleena Langley!” she reads, and I swear on the River Styx that she was looking right at me. Category:The Demigod Games